Miles Of Memories
I grew up solidly middle class in middle America. We were farmers, which means family vacations were wedged into the few weeks between wheat harvest and the first day of school. For these late-summer getaways, Dad would pack the wagon with tents and sleeping bags, a lantern, and his classic, green Coleman stove. Our road trips took us all over the West, camping in the Black Hills and Rocky Mountains. Once, we drove all the way to the Pacific Ocean, then circled back through the ghost towns and abandoned mines of Nevada. I still have a handful of old .36- and .44-caliber casings found in the dust of an ancient frontier settlement. Those childhood adventures instilled a love of traveling, particularly over the wide and open roads of the West. Like…